A Lone Risk
by Dame Grise
Summary: Armand St. Just returns to Paris to fetch Jeanne Lange. Incomplete. Rating is for eventual violence. Please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is immediately following _Eldorado_. First person seemed necessary for this part. Reviews and commentary always welcome. Also, title suggestions. I fail at titles always. -ReynardBleu

The few months Percy promised before we would be able to get Jeanne Lange out of France dwindled to scarcely two as news from Paris grew increasingly dire. The revolution had begun to eat its own parents. From our first day back in England I admit I pestered him about it. I didn't want my precious flower there any longer than she had to be. Being a well-liked actress wasn't going to protect her forever, especially when such great names as Fabre d'Églantine and Camille Desmoulins were suspect. Every day that passed added to my anxiety. Toward the end of February, Percy set a date.

He also set a number of rules. If I were to go myself, it would not be as a member of the League. I would slip into Paris and out again, however long it took, with only the support of knowing that I could quit France again by reaching the coast on certain days that the Daydream would be nearby. Armand St. Just was a marked man in Paris, and under no circumstances could he be used as bait for the Scarlet Pimpernel again. I begged for that, and Percy agreed. Did he agree a little too readily? I don't know. I only knew that if I failed, only the papers would bring news of my condemnation and likely execution to Blakeney Manor, if word reached it at all. If the League had other business in France during that time, I was not to know. And none of them, especially Percy, were to concern themselves with me.

But he noted my determination and helped in every other way that he could. I was to go back to France at the end of March. The remainder of February and most of March were devoted to study and preparation. He helped me prepare three cover identities in full detail, with forged papers and histories so complete each was like memorizing the whole of one of Master Shakespeare's plays. I struggled to commit every last detail to memory.

As I progressed from letter-perfect to instinctive, I lost weight, enough that Percy remarked on it as it if were planned and Marguerite, who knew it wasn't, worried. Yet she said nothing. I wondered what she thought of me during those weeks. Our lie kept her ignorant of the true depth of my folly in January, yet I had lost her to it after all. Now the silence was a barrier I'd built, and she would not cross. I could barely eat once a day, and fear gnawed at my stomach at all hours.

She helped me bleach the pure black from my hair, until the stubborn dark mess was almost rusty. She instructed me in how to walk in a manner that gave the illusion of greater height. If someone stood me against a wall or back to back to Chauvelin my true stature would be obvious, but most observers would note a man who was too tall to be Armand St. Just, too much the greyhound to be confused with the collie pup I'd been. She refused my gratitude, saying that it was only what any good sister would do for her only brother.

Percy drilled me remorselessly. In the last week before I left, he woke me several times a night, his large hand shaking me roughly out of my dreams to ask me my name. Only that last night did I answer correctly, instinctively. "Girard, vous gredin, Gaspard-Louise Girard. Eh bien! Laissez-moi coucher!"

At breakfast that morning he called "Girard!" from across the room as soon as I entered, and threw an apple at me. As I peeled it and cut it up, a poor withered thing from last year's harvest, he told Marguerite that I was leaving that day. The Daydream was to leave on the evening tide. My sister's eyes went to me, but she said nothing. Not even to wish me a safe trip. Perhaps she was afraid to jinx it.


	2. Chapter 2

When the Daydream set him on the shore, the cold sunless sky did little to cheer Armand. His feet were on his native soil again, and he could feel no joy in it, only the fierce determination–nay desperation–of his purpose. So he put his back to the safety and comfort of his only tie to England and walked inland.

After only a few miles, Armand realized one of the flaws in the accuracy of his disguise. It was not boasting to say he was reasonably fit and he could endure exertion even if he was unused to it, yet he'd never worn wooden shoes before. When Margot and he were poor in Paris, he'd run barefooted, but even the hardened calluses from that had faded over the few years of softer living and soft, leather shoes. He felt the blisters as they formed and then burst, and there wasn't anything to do for them.

He limped onward until he passed a wagon heading for the coast. The bed was filled with lumber and an armoire from some aristocrat's ransacked home, but the wagon driver wore real shoes. Armand's gaze fixed on those shoes, and he stood aside until the wagon was nearly past.

"Citizen!" he called out, careful of political etiquette in these dangerous times. The man hauled his reins and stopped, only looking at Armand curiously. "I'm on my way to Paris to find work, and I realized I need better on my feet than these. Would you sell me your shoes?" Armand was aware of how odd his request was, but it was plausible.

So a few minutes later–for the trade of his wooden clogs and a few francs–Armand acquired a pair of leather shoes. They almost fit, too. He tore strips of cloth from his spare shirt to cushion the blisters he already had.

Then he continued on his way. He hoped he wouldn't need to walk the entire way to Paris, though he realized it was entirely possible he may. Even in proper shoes, he couldn't walk very fast, though he did reach a village before full dark. He bought a plate of soup for supper, and a hank of bread for the next day, and then slept as only a lonely, exhausted man could sleep.

The sun shone more the next day, so he tried to imagine cheerful things as he followed the road. But his head filled too often with reliving those terrible days when he was last in the city of his birth. The image of Jeanne's lovely flower-like face accompanied the bitterness of regret and fear.

He'd hated leaving her behind in January, but he hated himself more. Even with the strips of cloth protecting his wounded feet, he limped badly by the time he stopped for his second night. He'd walked most of forty miles inland without yet turning south.

This was a larger town where Armand was obliged to show his papers to an official before he could visit the smaller of the two travelers' inns. He dipped quietly into the thick stew and pondered if he could afford to show enough coin to pay for a ride the rest of the way into Paris. Having it wasn't the issue but showing it was.

He ate slowly and listened to his fellow travelers. Then he paid for a half bottle of the thin watery local wine on the excuse that he needed it to sleep. His muscles ached and his feet hurt enough he wasn't lying. So sipping the wine, he listened more.

"Labor is so expensive in Paris now. The men refuse to work unless I pay them in advance," a man complained.

"What can you do, Remy? Unload the wagon yourself?"

The old man shrugged, and Armand studied him from behind his bottle. Then he made a decision. He pushed back his bench and crossed the room to where the men were talking. "I can help you, I think, citizen," he said.

They stared at him. Armand pointed back to where his empty plate and half-finished bottle stood on the table. "I overheard. Couldn't help it. I'm on my way to Paris. If you give me a ride, I'll unload your wagon for you when we get there."

The weight of their eyes was uncomfortable as they scrutinized him. He was small, but he knew he didn't look weak or ill. He resisted the urge to change his posture or expression. Presently, the second man chuckled.

"What do you think, Remy? Want to take this young vagabond with you?"

At that Armand straightened his shoulders and let them see the fire in his eyes. "I am an honest citizen going to Paris to find work, not a vagabond."

"As if there is more there than elsewhere."

He shrugged in the way only a native-born Frenchman could do, that small twitch of the shoulder that conveyed indifference. "I am going nonetheless."

"Why not?" Remy said. "No funny business. You just ride quiet and guard the wagon at night."

Armand nodded in agreement, knowing he had less to bargain with than the old man did. They arranged to meet in the morning before dawn, and he took what remained of his wine up to his room. The wine, taken in large gulps as an anesthetic, helped soothe Armand's aching muscles and raw feet, so he slept better than the night before.

A laden wagon wasn't that much faster than a man, but Armand wouldn't be on his feet the entire time. The wagon was full of winter cabbages and a few onions. Again, not the most comfortable of beds at night but it would be worth it not to walk. Traveling in this way with the taciturn-truth to be told, grouchy-farmer brought them to the gates of Paris by the end of the week. A thin, icy rain had plagued them since the night before.

Old Remy, who valued his cargo more than his new passenger, had struck Armand when the he was too slow covering the vegetables at the start of the rain. The younger man's natural anger at the abuse showed through, completely unfeigned, but the restraint of a man dependent on the goodwill of another rankled both Armand and the man he pretended to be.

"Now, look here, Girard," Remy said, "you mustn't take that attitude with me," when he saw Armand's clenched fists and white face.

"Then keep your hands off me, good citizen," Armand retorted and kicked his new shoes against the wheel of the wagon to dislodge the new mud. He hoped it would look a little dangerous and not boyish or nervous. "We made an agreement. That doesn't give you the right to play the aristo with me."

That shut him up, even though Armand hated to say it, because it implied he would denounce him, which he'd never do to any man, even were he to beat him bloody. Armand had been clever enough along the way to let Remy see the scars on his back. When he asked, he told him quite truthfully that an aristo had ordered him thrashed. Exact identities and eventual shameful fates he left unsaid. A few scars had never been worth the lives of an entire family.

Armand struggled not to take back his words. Remy must've glimpsed some of the inner turmoil, for he drew back and almost smiled. "You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

Quite sincerely, Armand muttered, "I would not want to, but no man lays hands on me that way." Letting his pride close about him, Armand lifted his chin. Remy desisted, though he may not have been entirely convinced.

He helped Armand cover the now very wet vegetables, then gave him a hand-up back onto the wagon seat. That night he bought a bottle of wine and shared it with Armand, who accepted it as a form of apology. He could not, however, relax his guard over this tongue. For the rest of the trip, Armand was careful to keep Remy's bonhomie stoked.


	3. Chapter 3

Armand proved so helpful in unloading Remy's still soggy vegetables that the merchant invited him back the next day to unload other wagons and carts that arrived. He bid farewell to Remy, who meant to start home right away. 

Before leaving, Remy pulled Armand aside. "Now, Girard, you be careful. Whatever it is you're up to must be dangerous."

Taken completely off guard, Armand gaped, then he shook his head. "I don't know what you mean, Remy."

"Now don't you play games with me. Any fool would know you're no provincial. You're from Paris!" His words were sharp, but the old farmer didn't raise his voice. He glanced around once more to be sure they weren't being overheard before going on. "So I said to myself, what can a Paris boy get from pretending to be a yokel? I didn't have an answer until I thought that maybe that boy was wanted in Paris. By the Tribunal maybe?"

"How dare you!" Armand growled, terrified but not daring to drop his pretense.

"Oh don't worry. Your secret's safe with me. You helped me." With a toothy chuckle, Remy patted Armand on the back. The younger man barely restrained his urge to flinch. "I doubt you're an aristo. An aristo'd be sneaking out of Paris, not into it. But mind yourself, Girard or whatever your real name is. Your hands are too soft, your vowels too Parisian and... whatever you did to your feet is going to keep you from running anytime soon. Keep your head down."

Before Armand could confirm or deny or offer a protest, Remy turned away, climbed into his wagon and drove back toward the city gate. He'd make good progress tonight. The weather had finally cleared, and it was likely the old farmer could drive into the night now that his wagon was unburdened and heading home.

After Remy was gone, Armand composed himself and thanked the merchant with a promise to let the man know where he lodged as soon as he found rooms in Paris. It was a promise he didn't mean to keep, but that was a problem for the next day. First he had to find those rooms. As he walked deeper into the city of his birth, he kept his ears open but his heart closed. Save for his beloved, he'd find no friends here, old or new, and dared not even hope for some.

Despite the warming spring weather, Armand noticed the mood in Paris was more somber than it had been in January. His loneliness and bitter fear for Jeanne filled Armand's mind so that he had to remind himself several times that he couldn't afford to go to the theatre to see her or risk being seen near her house this early in his trip. He'd have to wait until he had established himself a bit better and acquired what he needed for one of the other two identities Percy had helped him prepare. One was a shop clerk who could likely afford good clothes and the occasional theatre ticket. The other, strictly for emergencies, was almost a twin for Armand himself. Same general background with no uncomfortable political odor. Percy had meant for that in case Armand found himself in any kind of pinch and perhaps wasn't likely to watch himself as carefully.

All the identities, including Girard, had passports and papers good as recently as last week. So long as nothing big changed in the procedures, they should see him out of Paris safely. For Jeanne, he had three sets of matching papers. Two as his sister, one as his wife. Armand knew he had to be quick, discreet and cautious for both their sakes.

As he passed along the crowded streets, he heard a crier reading the headlines from some of the popular papers. He didn't think it wise to let anyone know he could read, so he inserted himself in the crowd nearby and waited for the headlines to be read, and then a few paragraphs or summaries from the most important articles. He was surprised there wasn't a recent edition of _Le Vieux Cordelier_, but he knew better than to ask. His best defense at indiscretion at the moment was to remain taciturn. He thought that would work well enough until he got his bearings.

As the sun set, he went to a coffee house to have supper and try to hear the news that didn't make it into the papers, especially things that were so commonplace they were no longer news to the beleaguered Parisians. That was where he heard that Danton and Desmoulins and the rest of the leading Montagnards were on trial for their lives. With his soup congealing on the plate before him, he forced himself to remain sitting for another quarter of an hour before rising, paying his bill, and exiting. On the street, he walked aimlessly in the light drizzle, avoiding a chill by not standing still, while he considered the grave news. He wasn't in more danger in particular because of this, but he ached to know the fate of these great men, some of whom had been among the dazzling lights who'd graced his sister's salons when the St. Justs were both happy and confident in their shared flat on the Rue de Richelieu. What did it mean for France and her people? The twilight and the rain hid his quiet tears. Freedom would not pass from France unmourned.

Still he did not mind his feet as well as he should and when he looked up to see where he was he discovered he was near the old house where he'd roomed in January. The room had many bad memories, but the portress had been fond of him. The old church, St. Pierre de Montmartre loomed near the summit of the hill, overshadowed by the experimental semaphore tower. Armand turned deliberately away from the familiar door and went to find a room closer to the theatre district where Jeanne Lange worked. His blisters hadn't completely healed on the ride into the city so Armand's feet hurt, and his weariness as he settled down for an early night was not feigned. He didn't like the portress at this new house, but he didn't have time to seek another and didn't have Percy's luck in judging safe places. An Englishman lavishing money around to find a secure resting place wasn't the same as a slight Frenchman trying the same, so he settled for surliness because the location was good. He slept dreamlessly though lightly.

He dutifully reported to the merchant the next day, conveniently forgetting his exact address. Pleading a pulled muscle in his back, Armand slipped away at noon and went back to his rooms for an hour or two, where he wrote a note to Jeanne. He told her she'd be able to meet him at a supper club he knew of near her house. He paid a small girl to deliver the note to the theatre and went shopping for some new clothes.

The second-hand clothes dealer was happy to help Armand find an old suit of good dark cloth and appropriate linen. She didn't ask a single awkward question, just took the money he offered. Armand went back to his rooms, ostentatiously crowing about his new outfit, as he knew a man who hadn't seen much coin in his life or clothes not made by his female relatives might do.

"What's that, citizen?" the portress asked. "You get rich all of a sudden?"

"I worked," Armand retorted. "I thought it'd be nice to have something of quality to wear when I wasn't working. I might even go to the theatre! Imagine that." He wagged his finger at her.

"Just be sure you pay up for your rooms in advance."

"Well, I paid you through the end of the decade, Mere Adeline. You shall have to content yourself until then."

The old woman snorted as Armand tripped up the stairs, doing his best to present a picture of lighthearted joy at a new suit of clothes.

Alone in his room, he hurriedly scrubbed himself clean with the water from his basin. He found he missed the ever-ready hot water he was able to get at Blakeney Manor. Yet even cold water is clean, so presently Armand felt less grimy and more refreshed. He changed into the new suit, which wasn't a perfect fit but good enough. The jacket was tight, the waistcoat--from another suit entirely√a bit tight. He dampened and caught his hair back with a black ribbon after teasing out most of the tangles. He chose a few coins out of the fat purse Percy had sent with him, which made him nervous because it was so out of character for any of his personas. Then he hid the purse under his mattress and went out to see a play, sadly not Jeanne's, so he suffered through an interminable three hours waiting until he could go engage a table at the supper club where he was to meet Jeanne.

He left the theatre early so he could get there ahead of the crowds. The proprietor of the supper club demanded a reservation but when Armand explained that his companion was to be Citizeness Jeanne Lange, the ingenue of the Theatre National and slipped him a large tip, the man seated Armand.

He would not keep quiet though as he set the silver and crockery on the table.

"How do you know Citizeness Lange?"

Armand decided that as close to the truth as he could safely get was his best bet. "We met before at the theatre. It's been some months." He fussed with the cuffs of his new coat, tugging them to hide the slightly shabby shirt beneath.

"So you've seen her perform?"

"Not for some time. I invited her to supper so we could catch up on our news. I've been out of town on business."

Eventually, the other patrons got the man's attention, and Armand was able to wait alone. He watched the door, twisting his napkin into a tail.

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1. a decade is the Republican 10-day week.

2. I wanted to write more, but the next scene with Jeanne seems like it will be long, so I decided to go ahead and post this.

3. Don't forget to feed the writer!


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